


Two Points

by marvelaf



Series: Home #1 [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Foster Family, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Foster Care, Good Will Hunting References, M/M, Phil Coulson Has the Patience of a Saint, Running, Talks about Bucky's eating issues, the woods - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:28:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21850726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marvelaf/pseuds/marvelaf
Summary: After a crazy night, Bucky wants a normal morning, but does he ever get what he wants? No. Good thing Steve finds him after his run.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes & Clint Barton, James "Bucky" Barnes & Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes & Phil Coulson, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Home #1 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1567540
Comments: 7
Kudos: 90





	Two Points

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Idea of Us (is stronger than we are)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3272924) by [Squeaky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squeaky/pseuds/Squeaky). 



> Hello! I hope you enjoy the next installment of my series Home #1! There is mention of Clint and Natasha in this chapter, but they aren't explicitly in it. Don't worry they will be back next chapter, and a bit of their background will be revealed! Maybe we will finally understand what has Clint so stressed out, or why Natasha smokes weed? Who knows? Definitely not me! 
> 
> Not a one-shot! You have to read parts 1 and 2 to understand this!
> 
> Also just a quick warning: Just because Bucky or even the Narrator say something, that does not make it my own personal belief. Bucky has very definite thoughts about obesity and his own self-worth, that in no way represent my own thoughts on the subject. 
> 
> Also, this Narrator is semi-unreliable considering it is basically a lens through Bucky. That means that the full story of Clint and Natasha is based solely on his perception of them. So Clint seems like a real dick, but in reality, the change of having another person in the house (along with other stressors that will come up later) are making him act out a bit. 
> 
> Anyways, hope you enjoy this chapter!

His eyes open and like clockwork, he sits up in the bed and hangs his feet over the side. They reach the ground now, but when he started his ritual, they hadn’t. Slowly he raises his arm above his head and leans back a bit, enjoying the satisfying popping in his back. Twisting his back, he feels a stretch in his spine and holds it for a moment, relishing in the burn. While turned, he notices the bear still laying on the sheets.  _ Damn, I’m weak.  _ Quickly, Bucky stuffs the matted, white bear back between the headboard and the wall. 

The sun’s barely up, and the birds haven’t even started chirping yet. But still, it’s Bucky’s favorite time of day. Old habits die hard because old habits are safe. 

The morning is peaceful, making almost a perfect dichotomy with the previous night. Bucky rubs at his eyes until he sees stars.  _ I could stay here in this room for the whole month, hop out the window to eat and shit.  _ He wonders, briefly calculating the schematics of his self-captivity. 

The smell of coffee in the air is enough to make Bucky want to lock the door to his room and follow through with his plan, but the growl of his stomach tells a different story. Natasha’s granola bar left a bit too much desired according to Bucky’s body. 

Slowly, he turns the knob of the door and peeks his head through the opening. The hallway is clear but the stairs prove to be a harder adversary. Bucky doesn’t know where the creeks of these steps are and one wrong move could alert whoever made the coffee to his presence before he’s ready. As if he were the lamest ninja ever, Bucky maneuvers his way down the stairs, making minimal noise, and peeks his head through the dining room and into the kitchen. 

Mr. Coulson stands at the stove, cracking eggs into a pan. In the air, the aroma of coffee is mixed with the scent of bacon.  _ A black coffee sounds really good right now. _

Stepping on light feet, Bucky moves through the dining room, where the table is set despite the fact that dinner isn’t for another twelve hours. The table wasn’t set when he came back last night. He stands in the doorway for a moment, watching as Mr. Coulson hums to himself as he cooks. 

“Oh!” the older man startles. James flinches briefly at the noise but gives Mr. Coulson a weak smile. 

“Morning,” he says awkwardly. Mr. Coulson gives him a warm smile, and for a moment it fills him up with a nice feeling in his chest. He pushes it out painfully. 

“Good morning kiddo. I’m almost done with breakfast if you’re hungry. There’s bacon over there if you want to start before the eggs are done,” he offers, his eyes trained on the spot where his missing arm should be.  _ This is a test, _ Bucky thinks. 

“Could I just have a coffee?” Bucky asks, unsure if he’s allowed to since he didn’t offer it to him. He watches as Mr. Coulson’s expression falls a bit.  _ I just failed.  _

“Of course. You want cream and sugar?” he asks, grabbing a mug from the cabinet. Written on the mug, it says ‘World's Best Dad’ with a question mark drawn on with a sharpie and there’s a child’s drawing of three human-like figures under it. It’s cute, very familial and it makes Bucky uncomfortable.

“No thanks,” he answers while Mr. Coulson pours the black coffee into the mug. 

“Just like Clint, with the black coffee,” Mr. Coulson chuckles, “you know, I’ve come down here a few times to catch him drinking the coffee straight from the pot.” Bucky raises the mug to his lips, letting out a hum and raising his brows. While Mr. Coulson goes back to scraping at the eggs in the pan, Bucky stands in the middle of the kitchen unsure if he can take this mug out of the kitchen. He never said he could, but he also didn’t say he couldn’t. Letting his stupid need to please get the best of him, Bucky decided that staying planted to his tile was the best option for now.

“Is it more comfortable to have the arm off?” Mr. Coulson asks quietly.  _ Here we go. _

“I mean, yeah. The straps dig and itch sometimes, but I’m pretty much used to it by now.” Bucky answers honestly.  _ Rule number 4982, don’t ever lie about your arm unless you want an infection, or poorly fitted prosthetic.  _

“Are you sure you don’t want anything for breakfast?” Mr. Coulson asks again.  _ If it involves the bacon grease I watched him pour into the eggs, no  _ Bucky thinks. He just shakes his head and takes another sip of the coffee. 

“Why don’t you look in the fridge, see if you want anything in there?” Mr. Coulson insists. He doesn’t want to. He’d rather chug this coffee and go for a run. But he finds himself opening up the fridge and staring into it. 

There’s an obscene amount of food in this fridge. It’s overwhelming, and most of it looks like dinner leftovers, which isn’t too appealing given that it’s 6:45 in the morning. He looks all around the fridge and finds nothing he wants. Sitting on the counter next to the fridge there's a bunch of bananas.

“Could I have one of these?” Bucky asks, pointing to the yellow fruit. 

“Of course. Have whatever you want,” Mr. Coulson smiles. Carefully, he rips one banana from the bunch and peels it open. Despite, the growl in his empty stomach, he feels uncomfortable as he watches him take a bite. Mr. Coulson smiles at him and his face glows red. He’s proud of him for eating a fucking banana! He’s so messed up that eating a stupid banana is ‘progress’ in his eyes!  _ Fuck this, _ he thinks. Quickly he turns his back to the older man, pushing two more bites down his throat before placing the half-eaten banana on the counter. 

“So, I did some research, about your situation and I think we could try a few things to help?” Mr. Coulson says eyes pointed towards the banana. Bucky’s whole face lights up as if he’s on fire. 

“What?” Bucky asks, knowing full well what he’s talking about. If he can keep him talking, maybe he won’t have to. 

“I read that if you have a foster child who’s a picky eater, like yourself, you could give them a Tupperware that they could put in their room and let them fill it with the food they want. Or we could try maybe eating food that you used to eat before you were here?” Mr. Coulson says, only looking up at him when he finishes her speech. 

He feels like running. He was supposed to go for a run this morning, he goes for a run every morning. It’s his first full day here and they’re fucking with his only routine.

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Bucky says, eyes downcast and voice low. 

“Please stop lying to me,” Mr. Coulson snips back. The boy takes a step away from him. “Sorry,” he says, raising his hands to try and ease Bucky’s discomfort. 

“I need you to know that I care about you James, and I want to help you, but I can’t do that unless you help me and let me know what’s going on inside that head of yours.” 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky whispers. His heart’s nearly beating out of his chest. So this is it. One day. One fucking day and he already fucked it up. Mr. Coulson probably hates him and just wants him to eat so he won’t die on his watch. He’ll fucking eat food when it doesn’t look like the shit he’s making. The kind of shit that’ll fatten him up so when his father finally comes for him, he won’t be able to put up a fight and he’ll fucking kill him. 

“James you have nothing to be sorry for. I just need you to work with me,” he reassures. But he knows he’s lying. He’s a liar because he has everything to be sorry for. If he wasn’t bad his father would have loved him, and his mother would have been present. He could have been enough for good old mom and dad, but he wasn’t and that's no one's fault but his own. He was so much work that he made that old lady in Queens have a fucking heart attack from the stress of him just being there. James is the common denominator in all this, so Mr. Coulson is a liar because he has too much to apologize for. 

“I-uh, I don’t know what you want from me,” Bucky says, his eyes feeling particularly misty. 

“Why don’t you want to eat?” He asks in a calm tone. The mist from his eyes gather into full tears, and God, it’s so embarrassing that he’s crying right now. It’s food, he’ll eat when he can get his hands on something that won’t fuck him up. 

“I don’t like the food. And I don’t like being watched,” Bucky exhales between choking sobs. He really doesn’t want to say these things. They’re personal and private and Mr. Coulson has no right to know them, but he can’t find it in him to stop his voice. 

“So what do you want to eat?” He asks. Bucky rubs his eyes, willing the tears to stop. 

“I don’t know, something healthy” he admits, hiccuping. Mr. Coulson smiles at him as if he just cured cancer. He doesn’t deserve that. He’s crying because the food he cooks makes him want to throw up, he doesn’t want her pride. 

“We can do that,” he beams, “James, can I give you a hug?” Mr. Coulson opens his arms and Bucky is faced with a difficult decision. Make himself more uncomfortable to put him at ease, or decline the hug and make him think even more is wrong with him? Obviously, the first answer is the one he should take. But Bucky is a selfish fuck. 

“No thank you,” Bucky chokes out, turning his head down, to avoid the sad eyes Mr. Coulson would have thrown at him. “I’m gonna go for a run,” Bucky mumbles and without another word, he rushes out of the kitchen and bounds quietly up the stairs. Once the door to the room is shut, Bucky leans his back against it, pressing his hand to his eyes. Slowly, he feels his legs give out, and his ass hit the floor with a thud. 

“Stop it. Fucking stop,” Bucky whispers angrily to himself. Heaving breaths attack his chest as tears continue to streak down his cheeks. It’s as if he was choking like someone had a hold on his neck and he keeps saying ‘uncle’ but no one was listening. He’s such as fucking idiot, always getting so submissive in the face of any adversary.  _ It’s like everyone else is a huge roaring lion and I’m the bug that the pig eats before getting eaten by the lions,  _ Bucky thinks. Furrowing his brow, his whole face scrunches at his thought.  _ That made no fucking sense. What is wrong with me?  _

Taking a few more short heaving breaths, Bucky crawls over to the bed and rips the bear out from behind the headboard. Sticking his nose into the fur of the bear, he lets out a shaky exhale. 

“God, I hate you,” Bucky whispers, his mouth opens for a sob, but through the years of learning how to cry silently, nothing comes out. He just opens his mouth, gasping like a fish out of water.  _ Idiot, Idiot, Idiot. _

It takes him longer than he would have liked for his breathing to slow down to a normal pace, but once it did, he stood up, feeling blood rush to his head. For a moment, his sight turns black and he has to grab onto the desk in order to stay upright. Bucky ate a whole half a banana for breakfast, so he chalks the dizziness up to dehydration. 

Dread pits in his stomach when he realizes that means going back downstairs. Who knows if his two biggest fans at the moment have woken up? He was a little too preoccupied with a meltdown before to hear if they walked down the stairs and he’ll kick his own ass if he cries in front of either of them. 

_ I’ll just make a super quick stop in the kitchen for water, then I’m out.  _

Luckily, something finally goes his way, because when he peeks his head around the corner this time, nobody is in the kitchen. Praising whoever was up above that decided to help him out, Bucky rummages around until he finds an empty plastic bottle. He fills it up with water and then stands awkwardly within view of the stairs and the front door. If he opens that front door, someone could hear and try to get him to come back inside. Or maybe not, he really doesn’t know how loud the door closes, but he decides now isn’t the best time to gather intel on the house and walks back up the stairs. 

Slowly he opens his door and closes it with a quiet click. On the lightest feet possible, he walks over to the window and opens it up. Lady Luck must have taken a liking to him today, because just under his window was the roof of a small shed. Grabbing his extra shirt he places it over the windowsill before hopping gracefully out the window. He lands on the shed with a thud and reaches up to close the window, making sure the shirt sticks out a bit so he can get back in later. 

Once he’s on the ground, he ties a knot in the long sleeve he was wearing and walks out to the street.  _ Finally,  _ a small smile grows on his face at the realization that he can be gone for a few hours. The sound of his feet pounding against the cement and his heavy breathing and the wind against his ears come together to create a perfect symphony. While he’s running, distracted by the music he’s making, he forgets that no one loves him, that everything is his fault, and that he hates being a living person. He forgets that he should be quiet and polite and grateful for the bare minimum. His mind takes him to a place where none of that matters because he’s alone, and no one’s looking for him and no one wants to hurt him. The endorphins released wash over his body, numbing his pain as if nothing was ever wrong. 

The burn in his chest finally arrives after a few miles, and he welcomes it with practiced ease. It’s comfortable, warming him from the inside like a small fire. The fence he had been running along shows an opening to the wooded area it was enclosing. He huffs out a few short breaths, slowing his pace down as he passes it. Finding no signs stopping him, Bucky enters.

The path isn’t neat, there are tree roots blocking the path, and grass littering the free spaces. It looks as if it was made from years of people just walking through, but no one took the time to really clear the path. He couldn’t run through path, the fear of hurting his legs in any way taking precedent, so as he walked his head couldn’t stop moving. It was as if he thought that not looking at every leaf, branch, and bush was a crime. 

And to him, it was. In one month he would be far away from here and he’d be damned if he didn’t take this place in.  _ Being here earns one point. Too bad not being here is winning with about a million points.  _

The path opens to a pond. Kneeling down next to the murky water, Bucky finds his reflection. It moves with the rippling water and for a fleeting moment, he wishes he was more like this guy. Free to move and be flexible, because he knows he’s a stick in the mud, stuck in one spot until someone else decides it’s time for him to move. He feels the green-eyed monster creep up the back of his neck and attach itself to the base of his skull because he can’t be the man he sees in the water. He sits back from the water, averting his eyes from the unattainable version of himself. 

“James, right?” A voice from behind him asks. Startled, Bucky sits up and faces the voice. Behind him stands Steve, the hot kid from the party last night. The same hot kid that watched him freak out. 

Giving a short smile, his emotional battery too low to give a brighter one, he answers, “Yeah that’s me.” 

“I see you’ve found the best part of this town already,” Steve smiles, sitting down next to him, placing a sketchbook and a pack of charcoals beside him. His hand is dangerously close to Bucky’s, and he feels his heart beat faster. Not in the hand around the throat kind of way, or the run three miles kind of way, but something even better. Their hands don’t touch, and despite is rapid heart rate, he’s comfortable. 

“Yeah,” Bucky laughs sheepishly, bringing his hand up to rub the back of his neck, _ my fucking arm, _ “Move around as much as I have and you get really good at that.” 

“I’m sure,” Steve says, his eyes cast over the knot in Bucky’s sleeve.

“Yeah,” Bucky pauses, watching as a bird lands in the water, “sorry for leaving like that last night.” Steve smiles once again and Bucky wonders what it’s like to be able to smile freely, without a nagging voice in his head telling him it’s not real. 

“It’s all good dude. We’ve all got something, right?” Steve says, looking over at Bucky with a shrug of his shoulders.  _ That was easier than expected. _

“Some more than others,” Bucky laughs but the self-deprecating joke makes Steve lower the brightness on his smile. 

“So, what’s your favorite movie?” Steve asks, changing the topic. It takes Bucky by surprise.

“What?”

“I get not wanting to talk about certain things, so let’s not. What’s your favorite movie?” Steve asks again. 

“I never really got into movies or books,” Bucky says, his face scrunching up with a thought, “or music. What about you?” 

“Seriously? Never?” Steve asks, his eyes wide. Bucky just chuckles and shrugs his shoulders. “If you could liquidize the movie Good Will Hunting and inject it into my veins, I’d be the happiest guy on earth. I think I was just in love with Robin Williams growing up, so that might make me biased. Actually, I think you would really like it,” Steve rambles. After seeing the dazed look on Bucky’s face, he smiles self-consciously. “Sorry.” He huffs out with a smile.

“No, no, tell me more. What’s your favorite food?” Bucky asks, wanting to keep him talking. 

They sit talking about all their favorite things for a while, Steve even pulling out his sketchbook and drawing the beautiful landscape before them. After what feels like a few minutes, but in reality, was a few hours, Steve looks down at his phone and says he has to go. There’s something about him that Bucky can’t quite put his finger on, but he knows he likes it.  _ Being here earns another point, I guess.  _

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Let me know what you think by leaving a comment and a kudo! Come yell at me on Tumblr at [marvel-af](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/marvel-af)


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